


The Christmas Spirit

by Sokorra



Series: The Christmas Prompts 2015 [5]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Elements of the TV Show, F/M, Mistletoe, My favorite Trio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 01:35:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5724562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sokorra/pseuds/Sokorra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya comes home to some surprises. Napoleon just laughs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Christmas Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into the world of UNCLE, so hopefully it is not completely off base.

Illya trudged through the snow covered path up to the cottage house that he and Gaby were staying in while looking for a proper headquarters for UNCLE near the UN.  They had decided to stay a little aways from New York.  Napoleon on the other hand had an apartment in Manhattan and gleefully returned to it.  However the American was staying the week with them as Christmas was coming. 

Unlike his two companions, Christmas meant little to Illya.  In Russia there was always more of an emphasis on New Year’s, he wasn’t religious, and the holiday seemed overcapitalized anyway.  But it made the others happy, and he could handle it so he didn’t fight against it.

He knew when he reached the house it would no doubt be decked floor to ceiling with decorations.  Gabby was particularly insistent on being in charge of that particular detail.  Napoleon had been sent to the kitchen to prepare a Christmas meal, and Illya had done actual work and met with a contact in Hartford.

The cottage itself was rather small, off of the public roads and perfectly suitable for a temporary home for a team of spies.  It had a large open space in the downstairs, the kitchen only partially closed off from the rest of the home. The upstairs was divided into three rooms, two that were bedrooms and a small one that was the bathroom. There was an underground cellar that was quite well finished where they could store the materials of their trade when the occasional neighbor dropped by the visit the newcomers.

To the other residents of Stamford Connecticut, Illya and Gaby were the Smirnovs, recent newlyweds immigrating to the US.  Gaby usually did most of the talking.  Illya’s accent needed more work.  He was starting to lose the heavy tones of his accent.  He could mimic the British one much more easily and he stuck to it, but not well enough to really use it for long and for some reason the accent seemed more suspicious to others then Gaby’s.   Napoleon, on the occasions he came up to visit, was Gaby’s American half-brother who had supported them immigrating to the US.  The two played the role perfectly, and it didn’t seem to be any different from their usual act towards one another.

He and Gaby on the other hand had a clear distinction between when they were in their covers and when they were themselves.  He had to admit it was slightly frustrating at times.  His feelings for the German woman had not changed since Rome.  He was more certain of them, but they had not decreased like he had hoped they would when they found out they were teammates. 

Gaby on the other hand seemed to show no inclination outside some casual flirting.  However she casually flirted with Napoleon as well, so it was hard to use that as any sort of measurement.

He reached the door of the cottage and stomped his feet to get rid of most of the snow. He could already hear a record of soft jazz playing, Gaby’s delighted laugh being joined by Napoleon’s deeper one.  As he opened the door the smells of dinner reached him, appealing.  As he expected, the house was done up in decorations.  Stockings by the fireplace, a Christmas tree in the opposite corner near the front window with the trimmings.  Evergreen sprigs everywhere.

 He closed the door behind him, peeling off layers and placing them on the stand that Gaby had found at an odds and end store they had stumbled into one weekend trying to play the newlywed couple exploring their new home.

“Cowboy,” He greeted Napoleon first, the man standing beside the stove, a spatula in one hand and one of his designer aprons tied securely around him.  He was in his element.  Illya suspected that if he hadn’t been led to a life of crime, Napoleon would have been a chef in some overpriced restaurant.  Or more likely, a food critic since Napoleon never did appreciate being told what to do for that long.  Gaby was out of view, hidden behind the small section of wall that separated the kitchen from the rest of the living area.  She stood up and walked to meet him, grinning with the particular grin that told him trouble was in store for him.

“Illya,” she said as a greeting, stopping to stand in front of him as he reached the wide entrance to the kitchen area.  She paused for a second, bit her lip and pointed up.  Looking up he spotted a sprig of some green plant with some red berries.

“Why are there plants on the ceiling?”  He asked, looking back to her.  Napoleon was doing a not so good job at hiding his laughter.

“It’s mistletoe.  It’s a tradition.”

“A tradition.”

“Yes.  When two meet under the mistletoe they are supposed to kiss.”  He turned to look at Napoleon who raised his arms to proclaim his innocence in the whole matter.  

“Don’t look at me, this was all her.”

“And we both happen to be under it,” Gaby continued as if Napoleon hadn’t said a word.  Her grin was larger when he looked back down at her.  He was surprised when a second later, without looking away from him, she grabbed a kitchen chair, pulled it between them and stood on it, making her have to look down at him.  Without hesitation her movements, her hands moved to wrap around his neck, adjusting the angle of his head and meeting his lips with her own.

The angle was awkward with the chair between them. He could barely hear Napoleon in the background going ‘It’s About Time’ because all of his attention was on the petite German woman standing on a chair and kissing him like she really meant to.

This was not an act, at least he hoped not.  He shifted his head slightly to deepen the kiss, and stepped closer to her so that he could wrap his arms around her.  He had wanted something like this for the last six months, but had figured it was never going to happen.  That he would never get a kiss that wasn’t meant to prove their cover.  But there was no one to prove it to.  Napoleon knew the truth.

“I think I’ll take the spare room then,” Napoleon joked after a few minutes.  “You won’t need it, will you Peril?”


End file.
